37. CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
C ARLY
Being pregnant isn’t the end of the world.
That’s been my mantra ever since I sat in that stupid pharmacy bathroom staring at the two lines drawn on the stick. I sat staring for a while, unable to believe what I was seeing.
How on earth could I be pregnant? It makes no sense. I religiously take the pill and only missed it once and it was the night Micah and I had sex for the first time. And the next morning, I made sure to take the–
That thought freezes in my head as horror slams into me. No, I didn’t , I realize. I was supposed to take the morning-after pill, and was on my way to the pharmacy to do it, but then I got distracted by the email from school telling me I was going to fail the class. So I never took it.
Jesus. How stupid could I be?
And now, I have to face the consequences of my own actions.
I finally have to leave the bathroom because the cashier comes to check on me, but I can’t leave the shame, confusion, and depression behind. And then somewhere on the way out, I start crying. I sit on a bench outside and cry some more, and then I cry on the bus too. People throw me odd looks, but luckily, everyone leaves me alone for the most part. I quietly weep while staring out at the city passing me by and, truly, I couldn’t tell you why I was crying. Except that, I remembered my mother’s words about how getting pregnant with me ruined her life. How she was supposed to be someone and do all these amazing things, but then she got pregnant and got shackled to my father and stuck in this town. I can’t help thinking that I’ve done the same thing to myself.
I don’t blame the baby of course. It was my own stupidity that brought this on, and I can’t believe I’ve been pregnant for so long without noticing. It’s been over a month. Was I stuck with the baby? Was there nothing I could do about my situation?
I probably need to go to urgent care to be sure. But even if I can have the abortion, I’m not sure that’ll be the easier choice either.
I manage to get myself under control before I get home. I wipe my face and even visit the downstairs lobby bathroom to wash it clean of tears and smeared makeup before I head up to see Micah.
But it’s no use. He takes one look at me and asks, “What’s wrong?” And the tears just start again. But thankfully he doesn’t grill me about it. He doesn’t do anything but sweetly hug me and order my favorite food. And somehow that makes everything worse.
The tears just continue to pour down my face and choke my throat. I just continue to feel so bad that I can’t stand it. And eventually, I fall asleep on his arm and wake up in the middle of the night snuggled into his chest.
I slowly extricate myself to stare at the roof and that’s when I start to recite it to myself.
It’s not the end of the world.
I run some calculations and find that there’s still time for me to get an abortion. And even if I can’t, for whatever reason, and I have a child, I’ll deal with it. I’m not my mother. I’m not going to turn into a bitter woman who takes out all her problems on an innocent baby. I’ll make sure that the child is loved and valued always and that they know that they’re the most precious thing in my life.
And they will be. I’ll make sure of it. I may not be the mother they deserve right now, but I’ll try my hardest. Which means getting my life in order, and getting a job so I can support them even if I have to do it on my own.
I picture it now, a little boy or little girl growing inside me. I lay my hand over my belly. It feels so surreal. Never in a million years did I think that this would be happening to me at this point. This is also not how I thought my day would end.
But it’s here now and I have to deal with it. And like I said. It’s not the end of the world.
I turn over and observe Micah’s face, relaxed in sleep, one muscular arm casually thrown over my body, the other one under his head because he gave me all the pillows. I can’t help but smile. He really is a sweet man. But I don’t know for how much longer he’s going to stick around.
As much as I’m enjoying our relationship so far, I’m also waiting for the other shoe to drop. This isn’t forever. In a lot of ways, this is Micah hiding from his family, and taking a vacation from his life. It’s why he feels so free here, why he doesn’t care what anyone thinks in Laketown. Because to him, Laketown probably isn’t a part of his real life. It’s simply a stop on his journey to wherever he’s going.
But eventually, whenever his business with Declan is over and whenever he gets sick of this small town, he’ll have to return to his grandfather who hates me, and to his father who wants him to be something he’s not with, and to the rest of the high society where there are women way more suitable for him.
And then it will be just me alone again.
No, not alone, I remind myself.
I have Mrs. Peach and Emma and Yule, and Grandpa Crane. I can even add Poppy and Tate Moon to that list now. I have a solid circle of friends who have become like family to me. I’ll be all alright with or without Micah. At least that’s what I keep telling myself. My heart will be shattered when he leaves of course. I already know that. A part of me that’s in love with him and enjoys the comfort and excitement his presence brings will be devastated to see him go.
But at the end of the day, I’ll be fine. I’ll make it.
At least that’s what I tell myself now.
With a bittersweet ache in my chest, I reach out to caress his cheek, and he doesn’t stir except to lightly angle into my touch. He doesn’t want a kid. I don’t know for sure, but I suspect that Micah isn’t the type that wants children, which is a shame because he would make a good father. He’s the perfect mix of playful and caring that kids usually love. He’s also surprisingly mature and responsible. Well, maybe not entirely responsible seeing as how he was still participating in bar fights but at the very least, he was hardworking and seemed to like taking care of people.
Should I tell him?
Telling him would inevitably face the possibility of losing him. Because if he tells me to get rid of the child, even though I’m 85% sure that’s what I think I’m going to do, it’ll break my heart. And if I decide not to go through with the abortion, it’ll undoubtedly be a huge problem between us.
As I lay there, thinking, Micah’s eyes finally flutter open. He blinks the sleepiness out of them and stares at me. That crooked smile I love so much twists his lips as he says, “Hey you. Feeling better now?
I don’t answer. I shift forward and kiss him.
The kiss is soft, exploratory on my part, questioning on his.
He’s not sure where it’s coming from or what I intend with it. And I’m not sure myself. Because the only thing I’m sure about is that I want to feel good for now, and forget about everything that came before. I want to feel his comfort, his love... even if it’s not real.
I reach out and grab his shirt, tugging him closer. His body smoothly moves above mine and sinks into me with all that comforting weight.
The scent of his cologne surrounds me, the scent I’ve come to closely associate with home. He then nudges my thighs open. I welcome him, his hardness, his length as he starts gently grinding against my pussy.
I gasp as the pleasure unfurls and spikes like a wave that grows and grows. He swallows the sound into his mouth, still kissing me slowly, gently, and passionately. Our tongues tangle again and again until I twist my head to catch my breath.
But I can’t. The breath remains trapped in my throat as the pleasure climbs to the point where I start shaking with it, shifting desperately against him, my toes curling with the need to explode.
And then he wraps a hand loosely around my throat and nips my earlobe. “Come for me,” he says, and that’s all it takes to fling me off the edge into a shuddering orgasm.
As I gasp in breaths, coming down from my high, he presses soft kisses all over my face, on my forehead, over my eye, on my cheeks, my pulse.
When I reach for his pants, he shakes his head and kisses my forehead again.
“You’re not in the mood for that right now,” he says.
“But you are,” I can feel his hardness nudging against my thigh.
He smirks. “Hon, I’m always like that when I’m around you. Doesn’t mean I want to necessarily do anything about it.”
I shake my head. “But–”
“But nothing. What we just did, was just for you. And for me too because I wanted to do it. But that’s it. We don’t need to do anything else tonight. Alright?”
I stare into his beseeching, sparkling green eyes.
And then I start crying all over again.
“You want me to meet with your grandfather?” I ask, gaping at him the next day at dinner. I spent much of my day today, setting up doctor’s appointments and checking on my test, which I passed with flying colors. The earliest the OB-GYN could get me in was three days from now, but they told me I could go to urgent care immediately and meet a PCP. Which is where I was this afternoon. The doctor confirmed that I was pregnant, and the man must have noted my dismay because he very kindly and gently explained my options, as well as the timeline for everything. The meeting was a blur to be honest, but he gave me some pamphlets and scheduled a follow-up in case I couldn’t get in with the OB-GYN early enough.
I come to the hotel in a daze, expecting to process all this tonight.
Only to have Micah drop this bomb on me.
“I thought we already agreed that the ruse was over.”
“It’s not for the ruse,” he says. “For real this time. He wants to meet you because he can tell how much I care about you, and while there, I’m going to come clean about everything.”
“Are you serious?” I can’t help but gape at him. I know how much his grandfather’s opinion means to him and coming clean could risk that.
“Yeah,” he says and reaches across the table to hold my hand. “I’m serious about this, Carly, serious about you. I want him to know how much you mean to me and who you really are to me.”
Emotion rises in my throat, making my eyes misty again. Oh, God, don’t cry. I don’t even know how I still have any tears left in me with the way I’ve been bawling all of yesterday. Maybe it’s the pregnancy hormones.
But I can’t help but remember my last meeting with his grandfather and how unpleasant that was. I’m not looking forward to another one.
“I mean...” I linger on the word. “Do I have to?”
He thinks about it. “No, you don’t have to. At least not for now, but you should probably meet him eventually before the wedding.”
“The wedding?” I squeak.
“Yeah. You are my fiancée, remember?” he winks, and something in my chest eases.
Oh, right. He was just joking.
I shake my head. “Alright, but if he starts talking about homeless people again I’m going to say something.”
“Please do,” he chuckles. “That old dog could learn a thing or two.”
Micah takes us there on his private jet the next day, once more it’s a thrilling experience. So is the limo ride to his grandfather’s brownstone in the Upper East Side.
As we walk in through the classic, luxurious dark oak doors, my first thought is that it looks and smells like old money. Understated colors, ceramic fixtures, a mild rich unidentifiable scent in the atmosphere that just seems to suit the room for some reason, even though I’ve never smelled anything like it before. Like leather with hints of… spice and lemon? I don’t know because I can’t really pick apart the different notes. It comes together so seamlessly and it’s one of those things where the whole is more sophisticated than the sum of its parts.
I take in the elegant decor, a mix of modern and classic, the high, arched ceilings interrupted by pillars, and the French windows pouring in light.
“Nice to see you again, son.”
I freeze at the same time Micah does, peeking from behind to find that it’s not Micah’s grandfather we meet in the vast space. Sitting in the living room is another man who looks like a bigger, meaner-faced version of his grandfather.
Micah freezes when he sees him and I know who the man is before he even says the word.
“Dad.”